The Changing Currents
by cmgacrux
Summary: Jack Sparrow may know something she doesn't, for he is enjoying their private masquerade a little too much. His face is a mask of jolly smugness, which makes her wonder if he, too, has some ulterior motive for speaking with her so freely. Sparrabeth


Disclaimer: Don't own them.

A/N: Many thanks to my wonderful friend and beta djarum99.

Feedback is appreciated.

The Changing Currents

_by_

_Claudia M. Gacrux_

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I

Masquerade

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"Elizabeth-dear, I am deeply sorry to disappoint you, but you are, once again, wrong." His lips curl into a smirk and he leans toward her with a predatory glint in his eye. He is poised, dangerous as a panther ready to pounce on its prey, and she knows it would be wise to back off. Indeed, Jack Sparrow may know something she doesn't, for he is enjoying their private masquerade a little too much. His face is a mask of jolly smugness, which makes her wonder if he, too, has some ulterior motive for speaking with her so freely, without a trace of bitterness and the cold sting of sarcasm.

The line between truthful lies and false truth blurs, and she looks away as the saffron of the sky diffuses in the inky secrets of the ocean. She is not entirely sure if she is doing the right thing, but she hastily dismisses any doubt lingering in the back of her mind's turmoil. After all, she has a task to complete. One that is decidedly not in favor of her fluttering heart, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Turns out you don't know me as well as you claimed to," his tone is mocking, however, she knows better than to rage at his customary disrespect for everyone but himself. Perilous as it might be, she finds herself accustomed to his clever manipulations, speech embellished with semantic curlicues, flourishes and far too many double entendres. It is almost funny how much she's come to enjoy listening to his voice. Almost.

Her eyebrow rising in an elegant arc, she turns to face him, willowy body reclined against the rail. "I know what you desire," she says, looking at him from under her long lashes, as though expecting some kind of reaction.

While her words may affect him, he is too good an actor to show that. In truth, he is the finest actor she has ever seen, talented, adaptable, _intelligent_. When she was little, surrounded by hushed recitations of Shakespeare and French pompadour shimmering pink and gold in English drawing rooms, her mother told her that for some people the world is a stage, their existence either a tragedy or comedy—or both. Such people would be excellent in the playhouse, but they are always on the move, changing, and thus seeking grandeur of a different sort. They are imperfect creatures gifted with perfect self-preservation and the nigh inhuman ability to redefine themselves; creatures that are drawn to and fascinated by the equally imperfect reality they need to embrace in order to survive.

"Every soul aboard ship knows that," he says, jovial, smiling, and seemingly not serious. Glittering beads and dark braids frame his face, his jet eyes flecked with chocolate bore into her, sparkling and hypnotic, and it's suddenly easy to believe he is immortal, legendary. _Mythical_. Tilting her head to the side, she smiles a lazy smile as her slender fingers slip inside his shirt.

"Is that so? I thought you'd prefer to keep your heart's desire to yourself." She draws her nails across his heart in a light caress that is supposed to accentuate what she said. "You don't like to share, do you?"

He grins, ivory honesty and gold deception, his supple lips curved sharply. "Ever met a _real _man what enjoys sharing permanently?" He is close now, trapping her against the rail, his face an inch or so away from hers, every ebony hair forming his mustache and beard clearly visible. "You know, Lizzie, rash young boys, such as your dear William, tend to get a mite confused about owning, possessing and _belonging_."

There is a message behind the rich timber of his voice and the purring quality his tone suddenly acquired; at least she thinks so. It is possible there is no message, though—maybe his need to trick her, to stir her blood has come into play yet again.

"And old men don't?" she says, and it's meant to be a cutting remark, something to distract her from reveling in the feel of his body pressed against hers.

He rolls his eyes. "Ask Barbossa. He's oldish."

"Oh, Jack."

Her chest vibrates with laughter; legs become weak in the knees as her wind-tussled hair swishes like silky seaweed. The splashing chant of the waves coupled with the _Pearl's _moans make her shiver, and although her spine and core tingle, she refuses to think it's because of him. Obviously, she is not enjoying the way his hands travel down her back and linger on her hips.

Obviously.

"You have to help me save Will," she says finally, and a sour look passes over his face. With a sigh, he unhooks her arms from around him and moves away. "Beckett will kill him if we don't do something," there is a note of pleading in her voice, but he pretends not to notice.

"I beg to differ." He gives her a frosty look and folds his arms across his chest. "Eunuchy mutineers often befriend equally eunuchy bastards, which means that your precious betrothed is safe."

Glaring at him, she means to rebuke him for speaking ill of Will, but thinks better of it. "Let's make a bargain," she says, glancing sidelong at him.

"Bargain?"

Their eyes lock and she appears at his side. Vermilion trickles like blood over the burning rim of the horizon, and she tells herself that her deceptive willingness is necessary to get on with her self-imposed mission, that everything will turn out just fine. For a moment, she thinks she can hear the wind whispering about betrayals and danger, but she ignores it. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she leans forward and murmurs against his lips. "If you help me save Will, I shall give you what you want."


End file.
